Don't You Remember
by Blue eyed fantasies
Summary: He prepares to pick up the tiny little pieces, painstakingly knit them back together and wait for them to be broken again. That's how his life works. It's how their life works. Married but never together, not until Kurt remembers Blaine in the mornings.
1. Picking Up The Pieces

**Based loosely on the books 'Forgotten' by Cat Patrick and 'Before I go to sleep'. Both of which are not mine and neither is Glee.**

* * *

"_Memories warm you up from the inside. But they also tear you apart."_

― Haruki Murakami, _Kafka on the Shore_

The sunlight filters lazily through the window, casting intricate patterns of shadow and light across his face. They forgot to close the curtains last night obviously. Blaine sighs as he realises he won't be getting any more sleep with the bright light barging in.

He rolls on to his side, extricating himself from Kurt a little reluctantly in the process. And as he does, he can't help the tiny little gust of breath as he sees Kurt fully in the light. He's all angles and long limbs and lazy content and Blaine wishes he had his camera nearby. He's taken dozens of pictures exactly like this, of course, but each one is special, slightly more unique by a minute detail - an extra freckle on his nose, a slightly darker shade copper tinted eyelashes fanning softly against his lightly freckled cheeks, and today there's an almost mythical quality to the golden sunlight which settles like fairy dust on his skin. His hair's tinted slightly - a fading remnant of the weeks they'd spent on the beach. Blaine lightly traces the swirls of gold and chestnut brown, slowly, gently with a featherlight touch, as if he's handling actual porcelain. It's easy to treat Kurt like porcelain, so tiny and delicate. Despite the blistering heat, he still retained the luminescent shine of skin - probably from the bucketfuls of sun cream and extensive moisturising routine he somehow remembers to perform meticulously every night and morning.

Sometimes Blaine wonders why he remembers _that_ of all things...

But no, he can't let himself wonder like that. It's easy to wander into dangerous, not unfamiliar territory. Instead, he carefully settles the covers around Kurt as he gets up. Then, after shutting the curtains, he switches on Kurt's laptop and phone, leaving it on the table beside him and hoping that this will be a good day, that it will be enough.

Blaine seems to spend a lot of his time hoping.

He quietly shuts the door behind him and makes his way downstairs to start on breakfast: raspberries, granola and yoghurt. It's the same thing he does every morning. Routine is good, meant to be reassuring. Blaine still isn't sure who it's supposed to reassure: him or Kurt?

The brand new radio, a present from Kurt's parents, remains silent throughout the process. Blaine's got used to the silence now, like a familiar friend it wraps around him in his every waking moment, muffling everything around him until all he can hear is muted whispers.

Upstairs he's sure he can hear a shuffle, or a soft rustling of sheets. He quickens his pace.

He fumbles for his phone in his pocket, speed dials one and holds the phone up to one ear whilst he places plates and glasses of orange juice on a tray.

The wearied voice of Burt Hummel crackles through the phone. "Hey kid. He up yet?"

"Nearly," Blaine replies brightly. "I can hear some sounds upstairs."

Blaine switches on the coffee machine. "You doing ok?" Burt asks with that undertone of concern he hides so well with baseball caps and grease. Blaine smiles a little as he places a daffodil in a tiny vase he uses for exactly this occasion. Burt has become more like a father to him over rather years, more so than his actual father anyway. They dropped the sir-ing and Mr Hummel-ing years ago.

"Yeah, just tired." Blaine emphasises this with a yawn.

"He having nightmares again?" Burt asks a little worriedly.

Blaine thinks how to answer as he balances a tray in one hand whilst clutching his phone t his ear in the other. "No, no. It's just me staying up too late on the computer." It's a lie. Blaine doesn't reveal that Kurt actually does keep him up, but for entirely different reasons.

"Take it easy on yourself kid. Don't go working yourself too..."

A thump. A sharp intake of breath. The frantic clutching of covers.

It's all right on time, like clockwork.

Blaine steels himself as he swings the door open with his back. "I'm just going in now Burt." The man on the other end of the line falls silent. He knows what's coming.

The room is darker than he remembers but his eyes are immediately drawn to the familiar, pale figure in the bed, right where he left him. Kurt's eyes are wide like a frightened animal and Blaine winces and thinks _how can I ever get used to this feeling? _ The blame and the fear and the utter confusion sinks into his skin, invading and dulling every nerve. It's like he's the big, bad monster. The one who did this to him. The one who's never been found because the only one who can find him is lost himself.

"Who the fuck are you?" Kurt asks in that tiny little voice.

Blaine sighs. Today's not going to be a good day. He plasters on his best 'I can be trusted' expression and prepares to pick up the tiny little pieces, painstakingly knit them back together and wait for them to be broken again. That's how his life works. It's how _their_ life works. For how long, he doesn't know. It sucks but he doesn't want it to end. He's a caretaker, an oscar winning actor and a frenzied addict all in one. The combination is just enough to get him through his daily speech.

"Hi, my name's Blaine Anderson and this is going to sound absolutely crazy but I'm your husband."

They've made progress. This time Kurt doesn't scream.


	2. He Has Music Etched Onto His Skin

**4 years earlier...**

**February 21st, 2018 **

_Kurt, _

_IMPORTANT THINGS TO REMEMBER _

_1. You don't remember anything. Like, literally, you only know your name and immediate family members in the morning. Your dad once said to me that you do things automatically and remember weird, odd little things like where the bleach is kept but then big things like me you just completely forget (and that's an awful lot of stuff to forget). Whatever, it's freaky. Just go with it. It's normal. Try not to freak out. _

_2. You work at Vogue (the address and directions to pretty much everywhere are in your phone along with my contact details and your dad's). Your boss Isabelle will take care of you and explain everything so DON'T PANIC. _

_3. You're meeting Adam tonight at 5.30 for coffee at that cafe down the road from our apartment called Abraco (I don't see what's wrong with Starbucks but...whatever). He reeeeaaaaaalllly likes you so you should probably make a move soon if you want to keep him interested. Just saying... You'll like him. He has sandy blonde hair and a British accent that sticks out like a sore thumb but if you need reminding, there's several pictures on both your phone and your camera (which is in the satchel hanging up by the door). Go get him. ;) _

_4. Oh, we live in New York by the way, in case you didn't notice and you're 24 years old... That might shock you a bit but you'll be ok. Call your dad if you need any more information or consult the little black book that you keep on your bedside table. If you really get into a panic, call me and I'll come and get you (but I'm at several auditions this afternoon so this is only to be used in absolute emergencies. _

_5. Avoid the homeless people because you keep giving them the money that we don't have. Oh, that reminds me; we have to pay the electricity bill. Good luck with finding the money for that (check the couch). _

_6. Cereal's in the top left hand cupboard. Keys and wallet are in the little drawer next to the cooker. There are labels on everything. You should remember anyway... _

_7. Pick up some milk on your way back home? _

_Love, _

_Rachel Berry (your loving roommate) _

Kurt Hummel woke up today not knowing who he was.

The pink sticky note on his wardrobe wasn't much to go on. But that, along with the small black book crammed with a wealth of information was just about enough to get him out of bed.

He had woken up with the twisting feeling somewhere inside of him that he'd forgotten something. It turned out that he'd forgotten quite a lot actually: his life. This happens a lot, apparently. According to his book, it started when he was 17. One day he just woke up and he couldn't remember much past the age of 8. It was a bizarre, completely unprecedented occurrence. They'd all gotten used to it: his family, his friends, the small number of people allowed close enough to see what was missing. Everyone was used to it but Kurt, who felt like he had a big hole ripped out of him.

Altogether, it wasn't all that pleasant. Nor was finding out that you have to go and work for a living which involves getting up at 6AM to be able to reacquaint yourself with...yourself.

Kurt already had a headache by 6:31.

Their apartment itself seemed to be a combination of worn antiques and sleek modern design, woven together by a skilled eye. Kurt presumed he had designed it because the pictures of Rachel in ill-chosen animal sweaters led him to imagine the horrors of her designing skills.

He also wasn't entirely surprised that he was working as a fashion designer. From what he'd gathered, his interests had always been musical theatre and fashion. _Way to break the stereotype_, he thought. Broadway wouldn't have been an option though, he presumed because of the lines and dances he would never remember and the other cast members, choreographers, directors. There would no doubt be questions when he forgot the steps every single day so he accepted with a sigh that it would be a fruitless task. What's the point in rehearsing if you don't remember any of it?

Still, he wondered what it was like to be Rachel, how easy her life was to be able to do whatever she wanted to, to not have to even consider for a moment that she might forget it all. He wondered what his roommate was like. From what he'd read, she was loud, obnoxious and over dramatic (he had partly guessed the last part by the ostentatious gold star stuck next to her name). But he would like to find out for himself, not go on written words that were supposedly from himself.

There were little things that Kurt did remember, just like the note said. He automatically knew where the fruit was for the smoothies, the tablets for his quickly forming headache, where he kept everything in his wardrobe and how to get to work (_ha Rachel Berry_, he thought with a haughty smile, _I don't need your patronising maps_).

It seemed to Kurt, he mused as he walked to the subway station, that his body allowed him the little things, the little nuances that anyone else wouldn't even think about. It kept everything else behind firmly locked iron gates whilst feeding him small scraps of information, just to keep his life remotely functional.

Of course, he didn't know if he'd had this same thought yesterday or the day before that. He didn't know if he was stuck in some twisted version of 'Groundhog Day'. How could he ever know if he was moving forward when he could never look back to see how far he'd come?

His one reassurance rested in the diary that he kept, briefly documenting his day. The dates were moving on one after the other. Each day was slightly different to the last (not by much). Kurt would have to trust in his future in the way he couldn't in his past.

As he stared in appreciative awe at the towering skyscrapers rising up on either side of him, Kurt smiled a little. It felt familiar, like an old friend he hadn't seen in a while. He knew where his favourite ice cream shop was for when he was feeling sad or even where the best cup of coffee in New York City could be found (the place he was going tonight with this Adam guy). He might not know the name but he knew where it was. Maybe his eyes didn't remember the city, but his feet carried him to his office somehow.

Once he got to the 22nd floor though, it was a different story.

Everyone looked so...professional, like they knew the purpose of every single second of the day and exactly what to do with it.

"Hi Kurt."

"Morning Kurt, remember that meeting in Mr Haynes office at 2."

"Hiya Kurtie Pie." The last one was a girl with curly brown hair and sweet blue eyes. She patted him on the shoulder reassuringly but didn't appear to notice Kurt's distress as he stared at the office filled with bustling designers with wide eyes.

It was the kind of place he would have chosen, bursting with creativity and activity. He could imagine feeling very at home here, smiling at the girl with sweet eyes and matching her cute nickname with an equally adorable one of his own. It scared him. Because he felt like everyone else knew something he didn't. And he was about to run to that ice cream shop where he knew there would be an extra large tub full of comfort and calories.

"Kurt!" A demanding voice cut through the hubbub and an arm was surrounding his shoulders and guiding him along smoothly. "Right on time," the woman said. She had long blonde hair and a kind face. Her little nametag read Isabelle. His boss.

"Oh, hi," Kurt muttered, forcing his legs to take him through the crowds of people.

"So your office is just up here sweetie," Isabelle said in a quiet voice. "It's a bit quieter in there. You have all of your notes and stuff and if you need any help just ask Cathy here." She pointed to the girl with the curly brown hair who waved and smiled knowingly. Kurt frowned. "Normally you just go in there and know exactly what you're doing though, somehow," she whispered conspiratorially. "I don't know how you do it."

At once, Kurt was more at ease. Being a fashion designer was surprisingly easy. He realised pretty quickly that everyone wore name badges with their position neatly labelled for which Kurt was immensely grateful. As far as he knew, no one in the office knew of his extreme memory loss apart from Cathy and Isabelle but they kept their distance with only the occasional aloof hello. Kurt wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or disappointed. The little conversation he had was difficult, stilted but he usually got by on a quick hello and polite enquiry and Kurt wasn't above fabricating a meeting to escape probing questions.

When Kurt got to his office, he couldn't help but do a childish little swirl in his big leather chair, ignoring the looks tossed in his direction. He had his own office, extensive notes, all of the latest technology. When he'd asked his boss why, she'd smiled and ruffled his hair. He didn't have the heart to tell her not to. "You're special sweetie. You walk in here everyday with slightly new and different eyes. You'd think your designs would be a mess but in some crazy way, they work." Kurt couldn't argue with that.

He finished two designs, amending the tartan theme just slightly. He could kind of see what his boss meant. Looking over his designs, he could see the varying themes, like several different people had pooled all of their ideas together and then blended them seamlessly together. Kurt wondered if he should be worried.

_Am I a different person everyday?_

* * *

"So, um, any luck with the auditions?" Kurt asked uncertainly.

The boy opposite him sighed a little over his coffee cup, blowing a strand of hair out of his eyes. "Not really. It's all chorus parts at the moment."

"Oh. I'm sure you'll get something soon." Kurt had done his homework on Adam. They'd met when Kurt was doing his first year at NYADA (before he'd dropped out to do fashion instead) and Kurt had been in his drama club Adam's Apples. They'd only bumped into each other a few months ago and as Rachel put it "reconnected. And in Adam's case: resumed his hopeless pining over you."

Kurt wasn't so sure if Rachel's observations were correct. But he didn't really know much about boys. Adam had a kind of harried look about him though and it put Kurt at unease. "Yeah, I probably will," Adam said. He reached across the table. Kurt eventually got the message and put his own hand tentatively in Adam's. Was this normal? His heart fluttered in a panicky way for a moment. "Anyway, how are _you_ doing?" Adam asked earnestly.

"Fine," Kurt muttered. "Keeping busy at Vogue. Um, eating too much ice cream and not doing much about it." Kurt shrugged. "Not much really." Adam nodded and then finally released Kurt's hand. There was a stretch of silence and Kurt glanced around the room.

There was a group of mothers sipping tea and gossiping animatedly, a boy and girl probably not much older than 15 looking even more awkward than Kurt and then he caught sight of a head of curly hair belonging to a boy, well, man really, bent over a guitar and muttering intently. Kurt felt a sort of warm shiver and quickly averted his eyes.

"So, Adam, you seen any shows recently?"

* * *

The meeting, in the end, was relatively short. Kurt's coffee was still warm and unfinished by the end. Still, he could see a darker grey bleeding into the edges of the sky. He still had to pick up the milk and despite his weirdly accurate navigation of New York, he would rather get home before dark.

He supposed what happened next was his fault entirely. He wasn't looking where he was going and stairs were not his friend at the best of times. Kurt tripped, coffee cup flying out of his hand, arms outstretching and out of the corner of his eye he could see the coffee spilling everywhere. And by everywhere, he meant on the white shirt of the stranger in front of him.

He didn't fall.

A warm hand encircled his arm, holding him up and righting him. Kurt gasped. "I'm so sorry...such a clutz...I'm kinda new here and..."

"Don't worry. That steps always a bitch. I've seen so many people trip here." Kurt looked up with round, startled eyes at the voice which sounded like oozing honey and home and all things good in the world. It was the guy with curly hair and the guitar. Kurt couldn't help but notice his beautiful hazel eyes immediately. They seemed to suck Kurt in and make his whole body warm and tingly all at once.

"Oh," he whispered. "My-my name is Kurt." Because for some reason, it felt like an important fact to share. Internally, once he realised how unintelligent it sounded, he was kicking himself.

The man gently let go of Kurt's arm and started to assess the coffee spillage situation. The shirt was thoroughly ruined.

"I know," the guitar man replied and Kurt realised that he kind of hadn't really looked away from his eyes either.

"How?" Kurt began to ask.

The man wiggled the coffee cup that Kurt had thrown in the air. KURT was there in big black letters. "Mocha?" he asked and Kurt nodded. I'm Blaine," he said with a smile, extending a hand for Kurt to shake.

Kurt's mind was sluggish, like it was filled with uncooperative mush and Kurt took a few seconds to respond like a normal human being. Blaine's fingers were covered in little callouses from playing the guitar. They skimmed against Kurt's skin like a well-worn map. Kurt would have liked to trace them sometime - the patterns of a lifetime sunken into skin.

"I'm really, uh, sorry about your shirt. I'll pay for the damages or...," Kurt trailed off. _Damnit Kurt! Stop thinking about stupid callouses._ "Yeah, great reflexes by the way. You're like some kind of superhero." _Release his hand you idiot,_ Kurt said in his head. _Be normal. Be normal. Be normal. For once in your life. _Kurt repeated it like a mantra in his head.

Blaine smiled. "Don't worry about the shirt. Saving the world from dangerous criminals in the form of cute boys who wear Alexander McQueen shirts is just one of the many things I do." Kurt snorted and then blushed when he heard Blaine's hidden compliment.

There was a slight lull in their little conversation as they realised that they'd caused a bit of a blockage on the stairs and awkwardly shuffled out of the way. Kurt was now taller than Blaine, he realised. Blaine had looked so powerful standing on the step above him and catching him with his hand. It had made Kurt feel like a damsel in distress.

He frowned. "Well Blaine," he purred and reached in his pocket. "If you ever need rescuing from the perils of New York City..." Kurt copied the number on his hand to the name next to the coffee cup. He hoped he was being discreet. "Call me." And then he smiled and walked casually out of the cafe, internally squealing and praying to God that he actually looked remotely cool.

Needless to say, Kurt completely forgot about picking up the milk on his way home.

* * *

When he returned home, sans milk, Rachel was cooking dinner. Kurt smelt the burning and immediately leapt for the take-away menu he knew was kept on the coffee table.

"Where's the milk?" She asked.

"Huh? Oh, I must have forgotten," Kurt said, giggling a bit.

Rachel frowned and abandoned her cooking before walking over to him. "Are you ok? You look all spaced out. You haven't got a fever have you?" She placed the back of her hand on his forehead. "If you've got a cold I'm going to have to ask you to stay in your room for the next 10 days whilst I quarantine the apartment because I can not afford to get sick with all of theses..." Rachel's voice was getting frantic.

"I'm not sick," Kurt cut in. "I just...had a really nice day."

Rachel's eyes lit up eagerly. "Did you go on your date with Adam?"

Kurt made a face. "It wasn't Adam that made my day nice," he said with a smile, heading to his room.

"Oh, who was it then?" Rachel asked. He could hear her starting to dial the number of the Thai place they were about to order from.

"Blaine," Kurt answered simply.

He didn't hear her drop the phone in shock.

* * *

**February 21st, 2018**

_Important stuff to remember. _

_1. My name is Kurt Hummel, fashion designer for Vogue._

_2. I live in New York, the city of my dreams. _

_3. Today I met a man called Blaine in a coffee shop. He has beautiful hazel eyes and fluffy brown hair that is just begging to be wound around my fingers. And when he touched my hand it felt like home. _

_4. He plays the guitar, has music etched onto his skin and turns me into a big soggy, illiterate pile of mush. _

_5. I want to see him again. A lot. _

_6. He has my phone number on a coffee cup. _

_7. I don't have his. Or a photograph... _

_8. I'm not going to remember him tomorrow._

_Please remember him tomorrow._


	3. Almost, But Not Quite

**Ok so, this story is basically going to be told in two parts. There's about 4 years earlier (the 'past') where Kurt and Blaine are meeting and starting a relationship and then there's the 'present' which is four years later and they're married. I hope this doesn't confuse anyone.**

**Oh, and I don't own the song lyrics or the quote or Glee or anything really so please nobody sue me. Anyway, on with the story...**

* * *

**February 21st, 2022 'The Present'**

'_And I, being me, then mouth in reply / Some shallow or sorry phrase or word / Too starved of breath to make itself heard.'_

-Harmonium, Simon Armitage

"Stay awake with me."

A groan is muffled in Blaine's pillow but other than that, no effort is made to stay awake.

"Blaine, _please_."

A tentative leg hooks around his own, just like always and maybe this is going to be one of those blissful nights where Blaine can forget for a precious few moments that things aren't the way they are, that they can have little whispered conversations across a pillowcase or that they can breathe their life's secrets against each other's skin until it stays there forever.

Sure, they could do that, he thinks. But it will be washed away in the morning by Kurt's mind.

Still, he lives for these nights. The nights after Kurt's spent the whole day reading the novels of their lives, stories interwoven so tightly Blaine's not sure where one ends and the other's begins. Kurt isn't scared of him. He's so comfortable with him, like he remembers the life he's spent with Blaine. Blaine almost expects - sometimes, when he lets his guard down - for Kurt to suddenly burst out with "Oh, there you are. I've been looking for you forever."

He never has and Blaine tries to be ok with that.

He still wouldn't trade in these nights for anything. They kiss and talk and cuddle and sometimes they even make love. A night like this is the oasis in their desert of a marriage and Blaine has to make the most of it. Kurt, like anyone, has his good days and his bad days. There are the days, the awful, awful days where he goes to 'his quiet room' and he mourns the loss of a mother who died 20 years ago, still a fresh, unhealed wound to him and Blaine just stands helplessly on the other side of the door, waiting, breathing, waiting, breathing waiting until he falls asleep.

Even on the good days, Blaine's aware that the 'memories' he has are really stories, stuff he's read and is repeating. It's an almost perfect replica of what their life would be like. But, as Kurt would say, it's _almost. _That little niggling_ not quite _is always knocking persistently at the door.

Sighing, he rolls on to his side so that he's facing Kurt who is sprawled on the other side of the bed, jotting something down in his black journal. Blaine needs to get him a new one; this one is almost full. He still doesn't know why Kurt didn't just use modern technology. They're at the stage where really all you have to do is think something and it will appear written up neatly in front of you. _New is not always the best._ Kurt had told him that many a time. Maybe he's a bit sick of everything in his life being new.

They now have 5 whole bookshelves dedicated to Kurt's life, filled with everything from silly scrapbooks to detailed journals to meaningless mementoes. Blaine had complained that they were running out of space ages ago but Kurt had only been able to part with a few loose pieces of paper at best and Blaine didn't have the heart to make him throw it away. To Kurt, that would be like throwing bits of his life away.

_I remember Blaine, _he'd snapped._ I just do it in a different way to everyone else - more external. Just because my memories are on paper instead of in my head doesn't make them any less special._

Blaine had felt really bad after that, guilty and he'd bought Kurt a new really ornately carved bookshelf, not that Kurt remembered what he'd done.

"We've both got work tomorrow Kurt and we need to get up early," Blaine reminds him gently.

Kurt nods absentmindedly. "I know, I know. I will go to sleep in a minute just...a few more moments."

This is always a difficult time for both of them. Kurt's memory wipes at 1:37AM exactly every night. There's no way to describe it other than eerie. It's like clockwork. One minute he's chatting to Blaine or kissing Blaine or cuddling Blaine and the next it's silence and Kurt stares at him with big, blank eyes and if it wasn't for his steadily rising and falling chest, Blaine's not sure whether he would be able to tell if Kurt's alive or dead.

For a while he didn't know what was happening and he had tried in vain to get Kurt to wake up, slapping his cheek and whispering "Kurt baby, please just wake up, speak to me, tell me what's happening."

The change is so sudden: a sharp, clinical severance of a cord. And then the events of Kurt's day are efficiently packed into some secure location in his head. _Too secure_, thinks Blaine. It's times like this that Blaine curses Kurt's efficiency and organisation. He can imagine everything packed into neat little boxes with about a million little locks and Kurt with a huge mountain of keys, frantically testing every single one, keeping a calm exterior whilst inwardly he's screaming in frustration.

Kurt likes to stay awake as long as possible, even if it means being tired and especially forgetful the next day. Sometimes, there are even tears, after an especially good day, when he knows just what he's about to lose. It's nights like these that both mend and break Blaine's heart the most. He doesn't know how much more he can take of Kurt holding onto him so tight they both might break.

_I don't wanna forget, Blaine. Please, I don't wanna forget. _

And Blaine can do nothing, just hold him and wait for something deep inside his mind to snap and the cycle to restart.

Blaine likes to be asleep before it happens but he can never say no to anything Kurt asks of him. So most nights he has to watch the man he loves most forget he ever existed.

"Tell me how we first met," a small voice requests as Kurt finally puts his journal on the bedside table and turns to face Blaine. The warm glow of the lamp tints the side of his face and casts the rest in dark shadows. They blend together with the purple shadows beneath his eyes. Kurt treats sleep like the enemy and in the end, he's the one that suffers because of it. Blaine thinks how exhausting it must be to know you're going to lose every battle but still go in fighting anyway.

He lightly runs a fingertip along Kurt's cheekbone, (is it usually that angular?) just dipping into the edges of the shadows. "You know how we first met. It's written in there."

Kurt sighs softly as Blaine's hand trails along to his hairline. He's about to protest when he realises that it's pointless. It's going to get mussed in sleep anyway. _Sleep_, he thinks with a twist in his stomach. "It's not the same," Kurt whispers.

Blaine smiles. "Once upon a time..." Kurt rolls his eyes but smiles and moves closer when Blaine reaches out his arm. "We first met at a karaoke bar when we were...hm let's see...how old were we? I was 24 and you were 25." He smiles when Kurt nestles into the crook of his shoulder, burying his nose into the warm skin. He doesn't know if Kurt knows that he's always done this or if Kurt's body will just automatically find this place. "One of my old school friends forced me to go up and do one of our old classics from the Warblers. You know the Glee Club I was in at Dalton."

"Our competition," Kurt jokes, "that we never met. You must not have been too much of a threat."

"I'll have you know, we did some good numbers. We were like rockstars." Kurt nods, his eyes going far away for a moment. He shakes his head, as if to rid himself of a thought. "Anyway, carry on with the story," he says.

"One of our most iconic numbers was 'Teenage Dream'."

"Katy Perry?"

Blaine blushes slightly. "I might have had a...um...slight, minor obsession with her. Anyway, that's beside the point. As I played the first chord, I saw a beautiful young man with chestnut brown hair smiling in the audience, wearing skin-tight jeans." Kurt smiles slightly.

"Just like the song?"

"Just like the song," Blaine repeats. "And I just couldn't look away so I ended singing the whole song to him. I didn't even notice when the song ended and everyone applauded."

"Always so lost in music," Kurt mutters.

"No, lost in some beautiful eyes and wondering exactly what colour they were."

"I would say they're glasz, a kind of bluesy, grey, greeny, yellowy colour."

Blaine rolls his eyes and taps Kurt's nose playfully. "Only _you_ would know that." And he relishes the bell-like quality to Kurt's giggles. "So anyway, once I finished my song, I desperately wanted to talk to him but I couldn't find him anywhere..."

"Ooh suspense," Kurt comments sarcastically. "And then I met you instead."

Kurt hits him lightly on the shoulder. "Asshole."

"Ow! You know you're very abusive in this relationship."

"Only when you're lying and teasing me," Kurt retorts.

Blaine's silent for a moment. "Anyway, I ran into him the next day in the...subway station. We were getting the same train."

An inelegant little snort leaves Kurt's lips. "How romantic."

"I got his number on the back of a Wrigley's chewing gum wrapper - his favourite flavour, he told me on our third date - and now here we are."

Kurt smiles softly at him. "Is Teenage Dream officially 'our song' now."

Blaine just stares contemplatively up at the ceiling, one arm hooked around Kurt's shoulder. He swallows and says, "I think we've earned that right. I've sang it to you to _death_. It was one of the songs at our wedding, along with 'Come What May' and 'Baby it's Cold Outside'."

Kurt raises a questioning eyebrow at him.

"Christmas wedding," Blaine explains because although Kurt might seem like he knows Blaine, there's only so much information he can absorb from a few hours of reading.

"I understand the 'Come What May' but still not 'Baby it's Cold Outside."

Blaine shrugs. "We do a Christmas duet every year. What can I say? Traditionalists at heart."

"Did I kick you out of the apartment before the wedding then?"

Blaine laughs. "Of course you did. For two days. I almost went insane."

"It's bad luck!" Kurt protests whilst Blaine continues to laugh because that was exactly what he said at the time and is what he will say every single time. Blaine recalls the year of the wedding being particularly straining on their relationship. Kurt's two friends from high school: Quinn and Mercedes planned it all and Blaine could see the obvious longing in Kurt's eyes everyday. He wanted to be the one to meet with the dress shop and pick out the exact shade of satin for the bridesmaid dresses or decide whether to have roses or lilies or even just to say what icing to have on the cake. He got as involved as he possibly could but everyone knew that he had enough things to keep track of in his life without having to plan an entire wedding.

Quinn and Mercedes did a fantastic job and when Blaine looked at the seamlessly blending tones around the room at the reception he thought _this could almost have been designed by Kurt._ Yet when he looked at Kurt in one unguarded moment he saw the truth lurking in his eyes: Almost. But not _quite_.

"Yeah well, I think we've had our fair share of bad luck," Blaine blurts out before thinking.

Kurt furrows his eyebrows. "What's that..."

"Shhh," Blaine places a finger to Kurt's lips before kissing them. "That's enough reminiscing for one night."

He reaches across to turn off the lamp beside him before snuggling back into the covers and spooning Kurt's stiff body. There are a few beats of silence and then "I'm sorry," whispered brokenly into the darkness.

"For what?" Blaine mumbles sleepily, sleep already thick on his tongue.

"For not remembering."

Blaine tightens his arms around Kurt. "Don't be sorry. Don't you ever be sorry. There's nothing to be sorry for. I love you and I will always love you whether you remember I do or not." Kurt takes in a shaky breath which Blaine can feel rack all the way through his body. Slowly, Kurt starts to nod. Blaine can feel him breathing deeply, in and out, in and out, in and out, imagining the fear expelling from his body, floating away, leaving only calm in its wake.

"Sing to me?" he whispers. And Blaine thinks, _I will never stop singing to you if we can just stay this way forever._

So softly, ever so softly, Blaine starts to sing a lullaby to his lover. It's everything he ever imagined it to be, like a dream so fragile, just waiting to be shattered.

_You think I'm pretty without any make-up on _

_You think I'm funny when I tell the punch line wrong _

_I know you get me, so I let my walls come down, down _

Kurt lets Blaine's voice surround him and lull him gently into the sleep he so dreaded and feared. He unconsciously moves closer to his husband and Blaine wonders if in Kurt's dreams he remembers Blaine and lives the life they never could.

"I will remember you one morning Blaine Anderson-Hummel. I promise," he whispers dreamily.

Blaine pauses his singing to place a kiss to his forehead. "Of course you will baby." He keeps singing softly as he feels Kurt slowly melt into sleep beside him. Lacing his limp fingers with his own, he kisses them ever so gently, feather light and almost not a kiss at all. "Of course you'll remember."

In the corner of his eye he sees the clock 1:16AM. _For one more minute. Be my teenage dream for one more minute._

_This is real, so take a chance _

_And don't ever look back, don't ever look back _

It's only when he's almost certain that Kurt is completely asleep beside him that he allows himself to stop singing and look back. "I'm sorry," Blaine whispers, so quietly - more of a skittish breath of truth than a full-blown whispered revelation. It's sucked into the night so fast Kurt isn't entirely sure if he'd said anything at all.

_Sorry for... _Is his final thought, incomplete and alone in the darkness, never to be thought in quite the same way again. Almost. But not _quite_.

The cycle has begun again.


End file.
